


The Sex(ting) Job

by tattooeddevil



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't sure this is what he bargained for, but he ain't complaining now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sex(ting) Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theron09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theron09/gifts).



“You know, about that favor.”

Eliot had made a joke about it, Quinn not missing a beat in responding in kind. A truce was agreed on, not quite friends, but not enemies either. He knew he’d see Quinn again. He never expected him to cash in that favor though.

It is five weeks after that damn dam job when Eliot’s phone rings. A groggy look at the alarm clock tells him it is 2:35am on a Tuesday night. Wednesday morning, whatever. He grumbles something unintelligible even to his own ears, before sliding his elbows under him and pushing himself up. By the time he musters up the energy to move and grab his phone though, it stops ringing.

He reaches to pick it up it anyway; if it is Nate, he’ll call again in a few seconds, and if it is someone not important, he knows at least who to yell at tomorrow morning when he wakes up again. The bright light from the screen burns his eyes, and he has to blink a few times to get the world back in focus. He doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, so not Nate then. Before he has time to really study the digits, the phone rings again. Same number.

He stares at it for a long moment, considering picking up, but he lets it go to voicemail again. He never picks up unknown callers, but he has a funny feeling about this one. Not in the least because it is the middle of the freaking night, and most people he knows and have this number know he’s in Boston and what time zone Boston is in. He could be out on a job, sure, but again, most people he knows would know he’s not on a job. Long story short, he doesn’t know any one that would have the need to call him in the middle of the freaking night. He’s going back to sleep.

Three weeks later, he gets a text message on his phone.

_Government labs are a joke. Two unarmed men with potbellies. Hope you’re having more fun. Q._

Q? Who the hell is “Q” and how the hell did he get this number? It raises Eliot’s hackles and he almost growls at his phone. There’s something familiar about the number though, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Just then, Parker screeches in his ear about big, burly men trying to grope her, and the text message and phone number are forgotten completely. Parker needs saving. Again.

Another three weeks go by. Everyone’s sitting around Nate’s apartment, cooling off after a job, when Eliot gets another text message.

_Broke my hand punching someone’s lights out. Hurts like a bitch. X-rays now. Hope you’re doing better. Q._

He suddenly remembers the previous message from “Q”. This time, he does growl at his phone, causing Hardison to shuffle a few steps away from him with his hands raised in a defensive gesture.

“Dude, what the hell?”

Eliot scowls at Hardison and thrusts his phone in his face. Hardison stares at it with wide eyes, hands still in the air.

“I ain’t touching that. You growled at it. What if it bites me in delayed reaction?”

This time the growl is directed at Hardison, accompanied by another thrust with the phone.

“Damn it, Hardison, would you just take it? Someone’s been texting me and I don’t know who. You can look that up, right?”

Hardison takes the phone from Eliot, and pushes a few buttons on it. He then pushes a few buttons on his laptop.

“It’s an untraceable number, encrypted probably. Give me a few minutes and I’ll crack it.”

Hardison starts typing furiously, and Eliot knows he’s lost all contact with his friend. He goes to grab a beer from the fridge, and flops down next to Parker on the couch. Parker shuffles closer to him and he obligingly leans his arm on the back of the sofa so she can lean against his side more comfortably. The things he does for his friends.

“What are you watching?”

“White Collar. It’s this show about an ex-con artist that helps the FBI catch bad guys in exchange for not having to go jail.”

Eliot snorts.

“You’re watching a show about a con artist? What, you don’t get enough of it yourself?”

Parker scowls, and pokes his side with a pointy finger.

“Neal Caffrey is dreamy, so shut up.”

“Who?”

“Neal Caffrey, the ex-con.”

Eliot’s pretty sure Parker’s confusing reality with fantasy again, but he refrains from pointing it out to her. She has nasty pointy claws, and a mean right hook for a little girl. Instead, he watches this White Collar thing with Parker, and listens to Nate and Sophie talking softly in the kitchen with a half ear. Probably nothing important, the job went fine, and the client was happy. Now, if only Eliot knew who was text-stalking him he would be content too.

“What’s taking so long, Hardison?”

“Hey, don’t rush the genius, man! Brilliance takes time.”

He rolls his eyes, but waits the eight minutes more it takes Hardison to come up with a name.

“Frank Williams.”

“Huh.”

It rings a bell. Deep down, far away in his mind, it rings a bell. Frank Williams. A fake name, obviously, but he’s sure he’s heard it before, to do with a job. Frank Williams. He takes the new beer Hardison holds out to him. Frank Williams. Q. The phone number. It is all connected somehow, but he can’t seem to put it together.

“Eliot? Hey, Eliot!”

Hardison waves his hand before Eliot’s face, and Eliot snaps out of his contemplations.

“What?”

Hardison looks at him funny before shaking his head.

“I asked if you knew who it was, but I’m guessing you don’t. Dude, you look scary when you’re thinking.”

Eliot growls before setting his beer down and standing up.

“Shut up, Hardison.”

He needs to get out of here, clear his head, think. He grabs his phone, his jacket, and his beanie and makes for the door. That’s when he gets another text message.

_False alarm, nothing’s broken. I need a drink though. McRory's? Q._

What the fuck? He ignores the questioning voices behind him and slams the door. This has to be someone he knows, but damn it, he can’t figure out who it may be. Frank Williams, “Q”. It all sounds very familiar, but he still can’t pinpoint exactly why and what. He considers not going down to the bar, but that will only result in him not being able to sleep, tossing and turning while he tries to think of who is texting him. No, he needs to know. He would call the number, but then, McRory’s is right downstairs, and it is not like he can’t defend himself if he gets into trouble. A beer it is.

He mentally prepares himself for... He’s not exactly sure for what or who, but it never hurts to come paranoid and ready to fight. He pushes the door to McRory’s open, and takes a step inside. From there, he scans the bar for familiar or menacing faces. Menacing faces usually belong to people looking for him. The bartender gives him a strange look, but Eliot flashes a reassuring smile, and the old man visibly relaxes. He doesn’t see anyone remotely familiar and threatening, so he takes his usual spot at the end of the bar, and orders a whiskey on the rocks.

He scans the bar every thirty seconds or so, but he is still not prepared for the blond man sitting down next to him like it were normal.

“Quinn?”

“Hey Eliot, what’s up?”

“Quinn?”

Quinn grins, and gestures the bartender for two whiskeys. Eliot just gapes at him, frantically trying to figure out how and what and who and why and how.

“How?”

Quinn slides one glass of whiskey over to Eliot, and picks the other up to toast him. He takes a long swallow before turning to a still gaping Eliot.

“I got your phone number from Chaos. Annoying as he is, he can be helpful at times.”

Anger rushes through Eliot at that name. The little shit hacked into his phone and gave the number to Quinn? But Quinn laughs, and it’s confusing enough to break through Eliot’s red haze.

“Don’t growl at me, dude, I didn’t hack your phone. I just took what was offered.”

Eliot decides not to ask, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know why Chaos, the bastard, offered Eliot’s phone number to Quinn. What’s more important, is why Quinn took it.

“Why’d you text me?”

“I was in Boston, figured we could hang out.”

Eliot snorts. Hang out? Until a few months ago, they were almost enemies. Hell, they beat each other up not too long ago, fighting for the other team. Just because Eliot asked Quinn in on a job doesn’t mean they’re best friends or something, and Quinn knows that.

“Bullshit.”

Quinn shrugs again, seemingly untouched by Eliot’s harsh response.

“I can think of something else for us to do, if you like?”

It shouldn’t make a spark of heat run through Eliot, it’s just an offhanded comment - lie -, but it does. He shifts in his seat a little uncomfortably. He has to clear his throat to reply.

“Me too. How about telling the truth? How’s that for doing something together? Why are you here Quinn?”

Quinn drains his whiskey without responding or looking at Eliot, and reaches for one of the two still full glasses of whiskey in front of Eliot. Eliot grabs Quinn’s wrist, and uses it to turn Quinn to face him, pulling him closer. He leans in slightly, and lowers his voice to what Sophie calls his “menacing voice”.

“Tell me why you’re here, Quinn, now.”

Quinn is close, almost too close, but Eliot won’t back down. He needs to know why Quinn wanted to see him, no matter how good he smells, or how strong his arm feels.

Wait, what?

Eliot quickly lets go of Quinn’s arm, and leans back in his seat. He chooses to ignore the smirk around Quinn’s lips, and downs the two whiskeys in large gulps instead. It doesn’t do anything to calm him down, quite the opposite really. The whiskey is hot in his stomach, adding to the heat already gathered there. The whole exchange, Quinn being here, it all throws him for a loop, but apparently his body hadn’t gotten that message.

He manages to take a few steadying breaths before turning to Quinn again. Who is still smirking, the bastard. Eliot grits his teeth, he’s not used to not being in control of his mind and body, and Quinn is pressing all his buttons. He’d like nothing more than to bash the bastard’s teeth in, but he would like to be able to come back to McRory’s after tonight. Besides, he would really like to do something else to Quinn, something that involves a lot less clothes, and a lot more lube, but he won’t ever admit that out loud. Beat him up, not fuck him senseless, get it together Eliot! Although, that would probably wipe the amused grin off Quinn’s face.

Quinn leans in so close, his lips brush Eliot’s ear when he speaks.

“I am here because I want to fuck you.”

And just like that, everything is forgotten. The texts, the phone-hacking, the fake names, the surprise visit, and the lies. All that’s left is heat and yes-please-thank-you-where-do-you-want-me. He can feel the blood in his body rush south; he’s never been this hard so blindingly fast in his life.

“I know you want it too, I can feel it.”

Okay, Quinn needs to stop talking and practically tongue-fucking his ear, or his hard on is going to do more than just press up against Quinn. On the other hand, what would be the harm in that?

“How about it, Eliot? Want me to fuck you through the mattress hard and fast?”

It’s hard to think when there’s no blood left in his brain, but he manages to force himself away and grind out a response.

“Frank Williams, that name. Why do I know it?”

He has no idea why, of all the things he could - and is - thinking about, this is the question he lets out. It surprises Quinn too, startling a laugh out of him.

“I figured you’d get your geek boy to check out the number, and I didn’t want to make it too obvious. It’s an alias Frank Abagnale used when he was still in the game.”

And then it all clicks. Frank Abagnale, master con turned FBI consultant. Not the inventor of the grifter-cons, but certainly the lord and ruler of grifters. Eliot snorts.

“A bit big on the ego there, are we?”

Quinn just shrugs before standing up from his bar stool and into Eliot’s personal space. Just like that, the subject is forgotten in favor of heat and promise.

“You wanna talk about how awesome I think I am, or do you want me to show you?”

It should be a cheesy line, it is, but it gets Eliot hot so fast it’s dizzying. He tells his mind to shut up and let his body take over for a while. It’s been a while since he got laid, especially by a guy, and he needs it. Right now.

He doesn’t reply to Quinn’s question, just slides off his bar stool and heads for the door. He hears the shuffles and footsteps behind him that tell him Quinn’s following. Good. He leaves the bar and makes a right turn, heading for his apartment a few blocks away. Quinn keeps close, no more than a step behind him, to his right. He half expects the tension between them to crackle, and the static to electrify the people around them on the street. There’s no talking, but then again, none is needed.

He uses the time it takes them to walk to his apartment to try and sort through his mind. He has no idea how and why Quinn is throwing him for such a loop. First the texts, then him just showing up like that, and now the promise of sex. He’s never felt more unsteady and uncomfortable in his life, and somewhere deep down he loves it. He’s always had a little bit of a submissive streak, but that’s usually with pretty women he knows can’t hurt him too bad if things get out of hand. Quinn’s strong, though, dangerous - Eliot is painfully and intimately familiar with how dangerous Quinn can be -, but still he feel this tug in his insides to bend over and offer himself up without boundaries.

All his rules and instincts have basically gone out the window, and he can’t care. He can only think about the prize at the end of the struggle. Quinn.

Quinn’s the first to break. The doors of the elevator haven’t closed completely before Quinn’s got him backed up against them with his tongue down his throat. Eliot whines - he can’t even care about that right now, but he’ll deny it to his grave - and pushes his hips against Quinn’s roughly. He’s pleased to find Quinn’s hard too, probably has been since the bar, like him. It’s only three floors up to his apartment, but they grind against each other all the way, not stopping for even a second, pushing each other further and further to that mindless, all-consuming place where your mind just sort of goes blank and all that matters is getting off.

The elevator dings and they practically fall out of it, their lips and hips still glued together, and Eliot steers them towards his front door. He has to rip himself free from Quinn to fumble his keys in the lock and open the door. Quinn’s on him as soon as they’re inside, kicking the door shut and pushing Eliot against the wall. Eliot lets his keys fall from his fingers in favor of gripping Quinn’s hair and pulling, hard. Quinn growls and slams his mouth against Eliot’s again in response. He’s always been a bossy submissive.

They’re both still hard and confined in their jeans, and his first orgasm - rushed, dirtying his boxers - does nothing to relieve any of the pressure and need inside of him. Quinn smirks against his lips before dropping to his knees and making a grab for his button and zipper. Eliot can’t do much more than listen to his own labored breathing and watch as Quinn pushes his jeans and boxers down far enough to free his cock and swallow it whole. He hadn’t gone soft much, but the searing heat of Quinn’s mouth, and the filthy image of Quinn on his knees in front of Eliot, is enough to bring Eliot back to full hardness in under a second.

The last coherent thought Eliot has is how good Quinn is at giving blowjobs, and then his mind goes blank with pleasure. It seems Quinn has no gag reflex and a very muscular tongue, which drives Eliot close to insane in a mere few minutes. He growls out something that should mean ‘stop and let’s get to the bedroom’, but Quinn doesn’t let up. Instead, he pushes Eliot’s hips against the wall to keep him still, and swallows Eliot’s cock again and again and again.

Eliot can feel the orgasm start to build fast, hot tingles starting low in his belly, quickly spreading through his whole body until there’s nothing left but the hot seed exploding from his cock, down Quinn’s throat. He groans through it, fisting Quinn’s hair tight, gulping lungs full of air. He would have fallen over, knees buckling, if it weren’t for Quinn rising from the floor and pushing him bodily against the wall. Quinn steals a few hot kisses until Eliot’s got his breathing under control a little, before growling in his ear, “I want you on the bed, naked, writhing on my cock. Make it happen.”

A surge of want goes through Eliot, and all he can do is rush himself into the bedroom and strip off his clothes as fast as he can. He doesn’t bother with turning lights on or closing curtains, he just peels his clothes off and crawls on his bed, naked as the day he was born. He watches Quinn standing in the doorway, watching him back, raking his gaze over Eliot’s body. He watches Quinn’s eyebrow rise with appreciation, and barely hides his own satisfied smirk.

Quinn jerks into motion, coming up next to the bed, shedding his own clothes. By the time he’s crawling up Eliot’s body, he’s as naked as Eliot is, his hard cock brushing against Eliot’s still exhausted one, eliciting a soft moan from Quinn. He fuses his lips to Eliot’s in a searing hot kiss, hand roughly sliding down to grab Eliot’s cock. Eliot isn’t getting hard for at least twenty minutes, but he’s not about to interrupt Quinn now. He still wants to get fucked, and it’d rather be sooner than later.

He bucks his hips impatiently, and Quinn mutters something about bossy bottoms against Eliot’s lips before he pulls back and roughly forces Eliot to turn over on his stomach. Eliot doesn’t go quietly, but secretly he loves being manhandled around. He lets Quinn move him around until he’s ass up, head down on the bed with Quinn’s tongue licking his hole. It’s not a bad position to be in, he decides. It gets even better when Quinn reaches a hand between his legs and rubs his balls. He doesn’t know how Quinn knows he loves that, but he’ll take it anyway.

Quinn eats him out until he’s got his tongue shoved up Eliot’s ass, and Eliot’s cock starts to stir again. Eliot’s had just about enough teasing as he can handle, and he reaches back to grab Quinn’s hair. He yanks hard, and drags Quinn away from his ass to glare at him over his shoulder.

“Are you gonna tease me to death or are you gonna fuck me?”

The angry spark in Quinn’s eyes is all the warning Eliot gets before he’s pinned to the bed flat on his front, wrists in a death grip, Quinn’s hot cock pressing between his ass cheeks, completely immobile and Quinn’s low voice in his ear.

“You are in no position to run your mouth, boy. I like playing with my toys before I fuck them stupid and I will do that at my own pace. Got it?”

Suddenly short for breath, Eliot nods. This is so much more than he bargained for, and he’s not one hundred percent sure this is what he really wants, but there’s no stopping now.

“All I want to hear out of you from now on is moaning and begging.”

Quinn’s words are accompanied by a harsh slap to his ass cheek, the sting immediately going to his groin. He bites back a moan, not ready to give in to Quinn yet, but he can’t stop the blood filling his cock, making it hard and needing again. He hears Quinn chuckle behind him, a whispered ‘slut’ reaching his ears. Another blow lands, this time to his other cheek and he’s unable to keep the groan from spilling past his lips. Quinn chuckles again before yanking him up on all fours.

Two spit-slicked fingers force their way inside of him, immediately thrusting in and out at a brutal pace. He can feel knuckles brushing the back of his thighs, and he realizes with a hot flash that Quinn is jerking himself off. He grips the sheets beneath him tightly, trying to ground himself, keep himself from losing his mind already with how out of control and delicious this is.

A third finger pushes past his rim, spit not nearly enough to slick the way, but the burn is maddeningly good. He groans again, words accompanying the sound.

“Quinn, fuck, Quinn...”

He has no idea what he wants to say, but he knows he wants Quinn to take his fingers out and fuck him with his cock, now. Quinn seems to get it though, because he pulls his hand back, and drapes himself over Eliot again.

“That ain’t begging, Eliot, you can do better.”

He grits his teeth; no way is he begging Quinn for anything, submissive streak a mile wide or not. Instead, he pushes his hips back and up, trying to grind against Quinn but getting nowhere. Quinn lightly smacks his ass again and backs off.

“Nu-uh, my pace, remember?”

Eliot does certainly not whine, he just makes a sound to show his disapproval. It’s not a whine, no matter how much Quinn chuckles and thinks it is.

“Impatient bottom. I should teach you a lesson.”

Eliot growls, and tries to buck Quinn off. Quinn just shifts with it and presses Eliot down harder, until he’s flat on the bed again, cock trapped between his body and the sheets.

“You can fight me all you want, but you know you want this. You want me to sink my cock in that tight hole of yours. You want me to fuck you into oblivion until your brain leaks out of your ears. You want me to own you.”

Heat flares up in him again, and it makes his balls throb with aching need.

“God, Quinn, do it. Fucking do it!”

“Not until you beg. Beg for me, Eliot.”

He shakes his head, he won’t. He just won’t. But then Quinn’s fingers are back in his ass, massaging his prostate relentlessly, his other hand teasing his balls. Quinn’s tongue joins his fingers and it’s all too much. The constant zings of pleasure along his spine gather in his stomach, his balls heavy and ready to spill, but he doesn’t want it like this.

“No... Quinn, no... Fuck me. Come on, fuck me, please!”

In less than ten seconds, he’s pushed down on the bed with his hands pinned above his head, and Quinn’s cock so deep in his ass he can’t see straight.

“Yes, oh fuck, like that...”

Quinn growls something unintelligible in his hair before pounding into Eliot’s ass at a punishing rhythm. It burns something fierce, but Eliot welcomes it; it’s been a while since he got fucked properly and thoroughly, and he wants to feel it for days. Balls slap against thighs, hands pinch, nails scratch, teeth bite and it’s never been better.

Eliot’s cock slides against the sheets with every thrust Quinn makes and that, together with Quinn hitting his prostate dead on at every push, is enough to have him screw his eyes shut, clench his teeth, and try to muffle a deep groan as he comes all over the bed and himself. He can hear Quinn gasp for air through the haze of his orgasm right before he goes rigid and his cock swells until it releases inside of Eliot.

They lay together like that, catching their breaths, until Eliot feels squished and too hot in his own skin. He pushes and prods until Quinn slides off him to crash in a tangle of limbs on the bed. Without thinking too much about it, Eliot punches Quinn in the arm to make him look up.

He grins wickedly.

“Consider this your open invitation to sext me anytime.”

Quinn smirks before punching him back.

“We’ll see.”


End file.
